How many of you have ever read that Richard Bachman (Stephen King) story RAGE (originally titled GETTING IT ON)? Or, more appropriate here, ROADWORK, for that matter?
ROADWORK is a tale that sees Barton George Dawes unable to come to terms with the highway extension project, where both his house and his workplace will be knocked down in order for this extension to be made. He even approaches someone with connections to the Mob for help, hoping to obtain explosives, though when this fails he makes his own explosives by using gasoline – and guess what? It actually works! He’s able to destroy quite a bit of the construction equipment… although this only delays the extension project for the shortest of whiles.
He’s busy losing everything: his job (due to his actions), his wife (who left him after she found out about how he purposefully didn’t seal a deal for his old company), and the only thing that’s left to lose is the house and the memories that go with it. But you know human nature – it’s more than just a house: it’s someone’s home, filled with loving times and fond (albeit painful) memories of his son who died of a brain tumour. This is why he stands his ground; this is why he won’t leave his home, refusing to leave his home and even shooting at the police, and finally setting off the last of his explosives – destroying himself along with the house he loved so much… because of the memories of his son, unable to let go.
RAGE is a bit more complex than that, and I don’t really have the ‘strength’ to explain it to you know, so if you’re interested you can read about it on Stephen King’s website or on Wikipedia. Even though ROADWORK ties in with what I want to talk about today, I think rage is mainly what I feel, which is why I thought about the story (brilliant, of course), and decided to simply combine the two stories in my blog post’s title.
Because man, I am truly utterly upset angry sad enraged…
My Significant Other dropped me off at my parental home yesterday after work. I was going to do some ironing, chat with my mum, and then we’d stay over for supper. Just some nice, family time.
But even the simplest and nicest of things get spoiled.
My parentals and I left the house at 17:05 to go to the grocery store. At 17:20, on our way back, our next door neighbour phones to inform us that it appears that someone broke into our house. Luckily we weren’t far off, so we were there in a minute or two, coming to assess the damage. They broke the large front window, went right through the house, and left behind minimal damage and only a few things stolen.
The DVD player in the living room, which is adjoined to the dining room (they broke that window), was stolen, the video machine was on the floor, and wires were lying about. Bottles of wine – fortunately not broken – were on the floor, and a bottle of nail polish from my mum’s one cupboard and a slab of chocolate from my younger sister’s dresser drawer were in the living room by the television (only slightly shifted) as well.
They didn’t go into the kitchen, which is where my handbag with my purse in it stood. The walked straight through my bedroom to the downstairs study – where the computer is – without touching anything in my room… and guess what? My new pearls (for the wedding) and tiara were lying on the bed which they merely walked past (!!!), clear as day.
They even opened only one of the cupboards in my parentals’ room – meaning that they didn’t take (or see) any of my mum’s jewellery.
Thank the gods for small… well, large, actually… favours.
All the computer equipment was placed neatly on the floor, though the screen (which was bought very recently) was broken. The only thing they took was the printer, which we found on the stoep where the window was broken, and the guillotine, which was nowhere to be found. We almost thought that they had stolen my mum’s friend’s laptop, which my Significant Other was going to have a look at that evening, but at least my mum realized this morning that she had put it away safely elsewhere, so that’s a relief.
Food from the cupboard was scattered everywhere – they even left a box of Salticrax and the tin of Milo on my parentals’ bed, though none of the food was open and thus the floors weren’t filthy. There were two drops of blood on the sealed pack of kitchen towel, and a big lovely palm/ hand print on the glass where they broke in. If they can catch those f*cking b*stards (which is what I called them on Facebook, though I don’t like using that sort of language), then it’ll be a fine day indeed.
Still, I don’t know how much will come of it. The police took almost an hour and a half to get to my parentals’ home (sadly, I expected no less…)
Why can’t a person be safe in your own home anymore? Why are there people who do these kinds of things? Is there no place we can be safe? Is nothing sacred? It’s a ‘miracle’ that they only stole two things, yet the really bad part about this ordeal is knowing that someone broke into your home and was rummaging among your personal things. No respect, no remorse *sigh* It’s a cruel world.
And I know that there’s no point in me getting really angry – enraged, even – and wanting to protect our home with all my might. It’s over and done with, and nothing can change that now. What’s sadder is the fact that it has become so unsafe in the area where my parentals live that they might have to move in the not-too-distant future… Moving from the home where not only my sisters and I grew up, but my mother, as well, since her father built the house.
When things go wrong, all you can do is pick up the pieces and go on in life (although you’ll become even more cautious and precautionary than you already were).
What are we to do… in a world where a lot of people just don’t care…?
(Scary to wonder what it would take for a person to act in the same way as Barton George Dawes did… and to see some logic in his reasoning and emotions.)